I don’t really have anything to say, I’m just typing for the sake of moving my fingers so that I don’t drift into a coma of emotionless detachment. Is it ‘into’ or ‘in to’? I guess ‘into’ would be ‘I turned him into a frog’, and ‘in to’ would be ‘I walked in to the shop’. Anyway.

I used to date a blind girl. Her name was ::… ..:.: .:::. .::.. ….: .:.::

No. Not really.

I didn’t sleep very well at all last night, and for some reason it feels like I’ve been performing fellatio on a sex toy made of sand and barbed wire. In fact, I am quite certain there are two shredded grapes lodged in my throat. This makes swallowing quite uncomfortable.

Because of these things I’m in a rather cynical ranty mood. When my Mum got home earlier I could smell her. Not because she has a foul body odour, but because she lit a cigarette. This caused me to start to rant through the medium of televisual advertising. I actually wrote a short script for a commercial that you might see between programs.

“Dad, what’s that smell?”
“That smell, Son, is called cancer.”
“Cancer?”
“Yes. It means your Mother is home.”
“Passive smoking during childhood can increase the risk of nasal cancer. Don’t kill your children. Stand outside.”

Yes, I was talking to my imaginary Father. Problem?

I’ve come up with a revolutionary form of transport. Actually, I haven’t come up with it at all, I’m just claiming I have because I feel like it. I’m sure lots of people have said the same thing. Anyway, I call it Toastcat. We all know that cats land on their feet, and toast lands butter-side down. Therefore, if I tie a piece of buttered toast facing upwards to a cat’s back, and then drop the cat, the result should be something along the lines of anti-gravity. All I need to do from there is find a way of building some sort of feline raft, and thus I will have a completely organic hoverboard.

You know, they should really sell little escalator with slinkies. A slinky + an escalator would equal endless fun.

What’s the ultimate doom for a leper? An epileptic fit. Yes, I’m terrible.

I’ve given up on the whole avoiding stereotype thing. I’m too lazy to mentally prevent myself from categorising people now. Besides, nobody would listen to me if I went other ways about describing a chav. So, so be it.

I wish my lawn was emo… so it could cut itself.

Resisting saying what is on my mind is becoming increasingly difficult as my hatred for idiots that I meet day-to-day develops. I was on the bus the other day when a chav got on after his two chavette friends. They both, as all annoying teenagers do, sat in seperate seats. He sat next to one of them and said to the other

“I was going to sit next to you, but then I thought ‘nah’”

The temptation raise my voice and say

“Oh! Here we go! An insight to the vastly complex thoughts inside your mind. How exciting!”

But I didn’t. I should have.

There is a zebra crossing on the way to Tallis’ house that I keep meaning to take a picture of. It has 5 white stripes, and someone geniously wrote ‘E = mc²’ across them. Fantastic.

I love Captcha boxes on websites. You know, the things that display the characters in barely readable text that you have to copy to prove that you’re human – or as close as you possibly can be. They amuse me because underneath them you often have the accessibility options. The one I saw earlier simply said ‘can’t read?’ under it, which I thought was perfect. I mean, come on. What!?

I love the way people are so judgemental when they see someone wearing something. When I was walking home this morning I was wearing my particularly colourful Boho trousers, underneath a pair of rather ripped jeans. Passers by could see the odd patch of colour and pattern near my shoes, and some of the looks I got were amazing. You’d think people suddenly realised that their optics displayed colours other than grey.

Anyway, I think I have run out of pointless things to say. So there.